Shed No Tears

Hurricane Noel blew a path of destruction through the Caribbean in late October. Then it began a winding journey up the Atlantic Ocean's eastern seaboard.

Thanks to the cold water of the North Atlantic, the storm had been reduced to a post-tropical force by the time it neared the old town. Nevertheless, it still packed a strong punch. Trees were downed and power was lost in many parts of the province. Coastal areas were particularly hard hit. In some places, roads were crumpled by the roaring surf and displaced rocks.

In the Sack, the storm caused a few tense moments as strong winds and torrential rain battered the neighbourhood. Just after four o'clock in the morning, the power went out. Twelve hours would pass before it was restored.

The most noticeable result of the storm revealed itself when daylight arrived. Autumn leaves had been torn from the trees and lifted from the ground. The wind and rain had shredded the leaves into a slick, confetti-like substance. Windows, doors, driveways and cars were coated with it.

It was a Sunday morning when Sack residents awoke to their first glimpse of the storm's impact. Shortly after seven o'clock, your agent arose from a night of disjointed slumber. Mrs. Wonders was already awake. I could hear her puttering about downstairs.

Slipping into a bathrobe, I stepped toward the bedroom window and drew the curtains. That's when I first noticed the shredded leaf debris. Nevertheless, the Sack seemed quiet and still.

As I turned away from the window, I suddenly caught a glimpse of movement on Gordon's driveway. Someone's head had popped up on the far side of his prized SUV. Then the head quickly popped down again.

I turned back to the window for a closer look. Seconds later, I was rewarded with a clear view of Gordon himself. It took a few more seconds to realize what he was doing.

Gordon, it seemed, was busy with his number one priority at seven o'clock on a powerless November morning, mere hours after the passing of a furious post-tropical storm.

He was washing his car.

***

Oscar's garage is regarded with awe by most Sack residents. It's filled to capacity by cartons, curiosities and, as he likes to say, "a whole lot of crap."

Of course, nothing of any commercial value can be found inside Oscar's garage. He would be the first to tell you this. Over the years, it has simply become the depository for things Oscar plans to throw away.

He just hasn't got around to throwing anything out yet.

***

Oscar has never been particularly bothered by the state of his garage. On occasion, he'll muse about cleaning it out, but nothing ever comes of it.

Other Sack residents seem far more affected by the appearance of his garage than Oscar does. Both Gordon and Big Doug look mortified whenever they catch a glimpse of it. Elizabeth, an office administrator at the local psychiatric hospital, says Oscar's garage is a sure sign of clinical depression.

On a number of occasions, both Ben and Little Doug have volunteered to help Oscar clean out his garage. Oscar expressed only mild interest in these offers and the matter was quickly forgotten.

Weed, of course, recognizes the state of Oscar's garage as a fine mixture of artistry and laziness. Most people, he argues, have no trouble simply being lazy. But Oscar, he points out, knows how to do it with flair.

In his own defence, Oscar says he's often too busy to think about his garage. Even though his work demands bear a curious resemblance to unemployment, he says people shouldn't be too quick to rush to judgement.

Pointing at the side of his skull, Oscar said, "It might not look like I'm doing much, but my mind is always running like a perpetual motion machine."

***

Oscar's boy, Dorian is fifteen-years-old. He hasn't set foot inside their garage since he was six. The fact that it's impossible to walk inside the garage has nothing to do with this.

When Dorian was six, Oscar wanted to dissuade him from playing amongst the accumulation of garage junk. He told the boy that a gang of angry leprechauns was living somewhere deep in its interior. He said there was no telling what these irate little Irishmen would do if Dorian happened to disturb them.

This is why Dorian still gives the garage a wide berth.

***

Oscar's wife's given name is Gloria. She is a very patient woman.

Whenever Gloria grows tired of the messy garage, she threatens to clean it out herself. Somehow, Oscar always manages to talk her out of this. He tells her that he needs to buy a garden shed before he can completely clean out the garage. He says he needs the shed to store all of his tools and garden equipment. After doing this, he says they'll be able to park their car in the garage for the first time in more than ten years.

Even though Oscar doesn't own any tools or garden equipment, Gloria usually lets the matter drop when he brings up the need for the garden shed.

***

In late September, however, Gloria did something very interesting. She bought a garden shed from the local Home Depot.

A truck dropped it off at the top of their driveway on a Friday afternoon. The shed parts were contained in two large eight-foot boxes. Its arrival came as a complete surprise to Oscar.

Oscar was in great distress when he learned about Gloria's purchase. Although he had lost his primary defence for maintaining a messy garage, he was far more concerned about another matter.

He would have to find someone to assemble the shed.

***

Some people, of course, are innately handy. Others develop this skill over time and with experience. Oscar, unfortunately, doesn't fall into either category. By his own admission, he's far more of an "idea man" than one who has the ability to build or repair things.

After a brief and futile attempt to convince Gloria to return the shed to Home Depot, Oscar was left to ponder its assembly. His ruminations on the matter lasted for several weeks. Meanwhile, the boxed shed remained at the top of his driveway.

Finally, after several days of rain, Gloria pledged that she would erect the shed on her own, with the help of any Sack resident she could muster. Unwilling to accept such shame, Oscar did the only thing a man could do in such a situation.

He asked Little Doug to help him assemble the shed.

***

Little Doug, of course, is already responsible for the majority of maintenance on Oscar's house. It made complete sense that Oscar would seek his assistance in such a matter.

However, Little Doug is also someone who is quick to offer his skills to others whenever the need arises. When Oscar approached him about assembling the shed, he quickly explained that his "dance card was filled." He said he would be happy to help, but couldn't commit to the project for another week.

Oscar relayed this information to Gloria, but she was stalwart in her refusal to wait another day.

***

Backed into a corner, Oscar decided to call out to the greatest engineering minds available in the Sack. Big Doug said he would be happy to help, but was tied up with his season-opening curling bonspiel. Ben, who is no slouch in the ways and means of building things, was leaving for Kingston, Ontario for his predeployment training. A senior cook in the Canadian Forces, Ben will be going to Afghanistan in January for a six-month period.

In the end, Oscar was able to put together a crew to help him assemble the garden shed. The "dream team," as he described it to me later, consisted of himself, Weed, Maxwell and Jeff Christ.

The shed-building began early on a Saturday afternoon. It was supposed to start earlier, but everyone, save for Jeff Christ, slept in that morning.

***

The garden shed was made of a hard plastic resin. For the most part, the pieces snapped together, although some needed to be attached with various bits of hardware.

After opening the boxes on the driveway, the four men began to peruse the instructions. That's when the first argument began. Jeff Christ insisted that it would be important to build a wood platform for the shed. This way, he argued, it could be anchored in place. Maxwell vehemently disagreed with this. He said his one-armed uncle has the exact same shed placed directly on the ground. Oscar and Weed sided with Maxwell, mainly because of the work involved in building a wood platform.

Outnumbered by his "dream team" colleagues, Jeff Christ agreed to proceed without the platform. But he did point out that a gravel base would be a good idea. Although initially reluctant to add another step to the building process, the team eventually agreed with the idea. The turning point in the discussion came when Maxwell pointed out that a supply of gravel could be easily purloined from the construction site of Serenity Terrace, a new cul-de-sac being built adjacent to the Sack.

Oscar and Weed were then dispatched with wheelbarrows to the nearby construction site. Jeff Christ refused to partake in the unauthorized removal of the gravel. Maxwell, of course, said he couldn't possibly assist in any form of heavy lifting, on account of tissue damage in his painting shoulder.

***

After laying the gravel base, assembly of the garden shed began in earnest.

Within an hour, the base and four walls had been erected. After numerous attempts to affix the roof to this structure, it was discovered that a key step in the assembly process had been omitted. As a result, the four walls had to be dismantled and the whole process had to begin anew.

Maxwell blamed the omission on the unnecessary complexity of the instructions. For his part in the mix-up, Weed blamed it on marijuana. Oscar said the problem was caused by Maxwell's poor literacy skills.

Jeff Christ said the setback was caused because no one, other than himself, had any interest in actually looking at the instructions.

***

Before resuming the assembly process, Oscar declared that a break was needed. The "dream team" proceeded to walk to the local coffee cathedral. After a round of coffee and maple sugar donuts, they returned to the work site.

That's when they discovered that the instructions for the assembly of the garden shed had disappeared.

Jeff Christ told me later that he believes the instructions likely were blown away into a distant yard. There was, after all, a strong breeze on that particular day. Oscar, however, thinks Weed hid the instructions "just to throw a wrench into things." Maxwell claimed they didn't need the "stupid thing" anyway.

Nevertheless, the assembly proceeded, as Oscar put it, "sans instructions."

***

For the next three hours, the four men toiled away on the shed. Jeff Christ described the process as "one step forward and two steps back."

At one point, Computer Doug joined the group. His appearance did not, in any way, accelerate their progress. This is because Computer Doug is genetically incapable of building or repairing anything other than computers.

Nevertheless, Computer Doug remained with the "dream team" until the project was completed. Later, Oscar learned that Computer Doug's kids were hosting a play date with a trio of Ritalin-infused, school chums at the time. Apparently, he told his wife, Marion that Oscar was in dire need of his assistance in erecting the garden shed.

***

It was dark by the time the assembly of the shed was completed. Flashlights were needed to complete the final steps.

In the end, there was some dispute as to whether the shed had been correctly assembled. Jeff Christ pointed out that there were several pieces of hardware left over. But Maxwell argued that manufacturers always give more hardware than necessary, "just to be on the safe side."

There was also the matter of the shed door. Apparently, it didn't close properly. A great deal of pushing and pulling was required to close the door. The same effort was required to open it.

But with a light showering of snow flurries in the air, Oscar declared the assembly to be a success. He said it didn't matter if the quality of the job was good. Instead, it only mattered that their work had been "good enough."

***

At about nine o'clock in the morning, following the arrival of the remnants of Hurricane Noel, your agent's cell phone rang. I almost missed the call because of the noise emanating from Big Doug's house. Unwilling to accept a temporary loss of power, he was running his recently-acquired generator at the top of his driveway. The rumbling of its motor reverberated throughout the Sack.

Big Doug, of course, is not a man to go without his Sunday morning bacon and eggs under any circumstance.

When I finally picked up the phone, Oscar unleashed a torrent of complaints about Big Doug and his generator. Then he ranted for a while about Gordon and his SUV-washing ways. Finally, he asked if I could pop over to his house for a moment.

I said I would be there in a jiffy.

***

Oscar was standing in front of his house when I arrived. He motioned for me to follow him into the backyard.

When I caught a full glimpse of the yard, I was temporarily lost for words. Oscar's garden shed seemed to have imploded during the onslaught of the post-tropical storm. The two main roof parts were flung in distant, yet separate parts of the yard. The grey walls were lying on the ground amidst the base of the shed. On the base stood a barbeque and a partially-filled hockey equipment bag. These were the only items he had managed to put into the shed after it was erected. Neither item had been located in the garage. It remained filled with Oscar's cartons, curiosities and other "crap."

Oscar said he still hadn't got around to cleaning out the garage, despite the existence of the shed. Given the destruction in the yard, he said this was quite fortuitous.

The hockey equipment bag belonged to Dorian. Some of the gear had been torn from the bag and was also strewn about the yard. I saw an elbow pad lodged in a piece of shrubbery. Everything, of course, was covered with the pulpy leaf debris created by the storm.

It was, to say the least, an unholy mess.

***

"So," Oscar said calmly, "can you help me clean this mess up?"

I looked at him for a moment, still taking in the state of his yard and the remnants of his recently-acquired garden shed.

"I'll buy you a coffee and a maple sugar donut when the power comes back on," he added quickly.

"Of course," I replied, stooping to pick up one of the shed walls. "So where do you want to put this stuff?"

"Well," he answered, with a grin on his face, "I think we're gonna have to put it all in the garage."

***

Dinner for Two

Florence and Mrs. Wonders have taken up running as a form of exercise. Thankfully, there have been no nipple injuries reported so far.

Computer Doug, of course, suffered a nasty case of jogger's nipple when he started a running regime last year. His wife, Marion says his one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar running shoes have gathered dust in the closet ever since.

Whenever Florence and Mrs. Wonders go running, Oscar seems to think your agent must be in dire need of company. Within moments of the two women bounding out of the Sack, the Wonders' doorbell begins to chime.

"Whatcha' doin'?" Oscar will say, as he starts to crowd the doorway.

If I said I was in the midst of intense telephone negotiations to secure lasting peace in the Middle East, it wouldn't matter much to him. He'll still respond in the same fashion:

"Want some company?"

***

Mrs. Wonders and Florence went for a run on Tuesday evening. It was the day before Halloween.

Your agent had just sat down at the blogging machine, when the doorbell rang. Sighing, I strode to the front door, determined to send Oscar packing. I had no idea what I was going to say, but I was hoping for inspiration by the time I got there.

Upon opening the door, I was surprised to see that it wasn't Oscar. I was even a little disappointed about this.

My response to Oscar's "Whatcha doin'?" was going to be: "Fighting off a bad case of diarrhea." Like most people, Oscar has a lot of respect for this condition. I was betting he would make a quick exit for fear of catching whatever was causing this phony affliction.

But instead of Oscar, it was seven-year-old Tremaine standing at the door.

***

It has been some time since we spoke of young Tremaine. This is because he hasn't been around the Sack very much. Apparently, he spent his entire summer at his grandmother's house in Ontario.

Tremaine, of course, is well known in the Sack as the leading seller of fundraising chocolate bars. He usually sells these products on behalf of his older brother, Jimbo, a rather sluggish fourteen-year-old.

According to Sack observers, Jimbo is involved in a number of school activities that rely upon fundraising efforts. Since he's rarely moved to exert himself, one can only imagine these activities as sedentary ones. Oscar says he's doubtful this includes the school chess club, since Jimbo doesn't seem very interested in intellectual matters, either.

The nature of Jimbo's fundraising needs is a moot point, anyway. When asked where the money for the chocolate bars goes, Tremaine usually shrugs his shoulders and says:

"For school."

When asked to elaborate, the boy simply shrugs again and then gets back to the more important question:

"You wanna buy a chocolate bar?"

***

There has been one occasion where Tremaine has provided more information about the focus of his fundraising activity. Apparently, Jimbo's class was going on a trip to our nation's capital, Ottawa. At the time, Tremaine simply said:

"Jimbo's school's goin' to Hottawa."

"What are they going to do there?" your agent asked, fully aware of Tremaine's disinterest in the matter.

"Look at stuff," he replied.

"What kind of stuff?" I asked, noting the growing impatience on the boy's face.

"I dunno," he said quickly. Then he added, "So you wanna buy a chocolate bar?"

"I'll take two of them."

***

Tremaine's interest in selling chocolate bars has little to with any commercial gain on his part. He isn't particularly interested in the charitable aspect of the endeavour, either.

For Tremaine, it's all about the chocolate.

Although he's a mere boy, Tremaine understands that putting himself in the proximity of chocolate means it will eventually find its way into his mouth. Oscar says this same principle holds true when it comes to money.

"If you do business with wealthy people," he said sagely, "some of their money is going to find its way into your pocket."

Although Weed frequently disagrees with Oscar, he nodded his complete agreement with this statement.

"That's the way it works with marijuana, too."

***

When Tremaine completes a chocolate bar sale at the Wonders' home, you can be certain of one thing. Within a matter of days, he'll be back at the door with a very pointed inquiry.

"Do you got any chocolate?"

Of course, this is really just an unspoken game we've been playing for some time. Your agent buys the fundraising chocolate bar and then Tremaine comes back to get it later. From his perspective, I have no appreciation for the true value of the product, even though I have the economic means to acquire it.

Tremaine hasn't exactly expressed it this way, but that's certainly my impression of the matter.

***

On the day before Halloween, Tremaine stood on the Wonders' porch with a familiar bag of fundraising chocolate bars. He was dressed in his usual autumn attire, a pair of baggy jeans and loose-fitting sweatshirt. Over the sweatshirt was his New Jersey Nets basketball shirt. On the back of the shirt are the name and number of Jason Kidd.

In the summer, Tremaine's jeans are replaced by a pair of baggy basketball shorts. Since he's a very slightly-built lad, the shorts are approximately the same length as his jeans. The sweatshirt, of course, is discarded in the summer. But the Jason Kidd shirt is ever-present.

On this particular occasion, I didn't pursue any information about Tremaine's latest fundraising activities. I simply asked about his welfare and his recent sojourn in Ontario. According to Tremaine, everything was fine on both counts.

"How many chocolate bars do you want?" the boy asked, when we finally got down to business. Tremaine always pronounces the word as "chocklit."

"Just one, thanks," I replied. Somehow, the price of the bars had inflated to a lofty three dollars, instead of the usual two.

"I got two left," he replied, pulling both out of the bag.

"But I only want one." I answered.

Tremaine looked at me uncertainly. A thin line of mucus was starting to seep from his left nostril. He quickly sniffed it back into his nose and said:

"But if you eat one, you won't have any left."

"That's true," I replied. His face suddenly brightened.

I dug into the pocket of my jeans for some more coins. "I hate it when that happens," I added. "Maybe we should make it two bars."

***

Tremaine passed over the two large chocolate bars and I gave him the required six dollars. He put the money into the plastic bag and then asked:

"You gonna eat any of it now?"

"No," I said warily, "I'll probably put them in the fridge for later."

"Later tonight?" he asked, with a hint of surprise in his voice.

"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I don't feel like eating any chocolate tonight."

Tremaine nodded and turned to walk down the front steps. If I wasn't mistaken, I thought I heard him say "good" under his breath.

***

Halloween in the Sack was a tepid affair.

Despite Rental Doug's scary house decorations, very few non-Sack kids ventured into the neighbourhood. Mrs. Wonders estimated that our doorbell rang only about ten times during the entire evening.

Aside from small children acting upon the prompting of their accompanying parents, few kids seemed to have a complete grasp of the Halloween transaction. Oscar noted that not a single unaccompanied kid uttered the words, "Trick or Treat!" when they appeared at his door. Little Doug said he had the same experience.

After several incidents of this nature, Oscar said he simply said "What?" whenever kids stood expectantly on his doorstep with their loot bags opened. One pre-adolescent kid nodded at his bag and had the temerity to say:

"You know. . . . "

"What?" Oscar repeated.

"You're supposed to give us stuff," said the boy. Oscar said the kid was dressed as a pirate, but his eye patch was hanging loosely around his neck. Apparently, the patch was too tight on his face. There was a deep indentation on the boy's skin where the elastic had dug in.

"Aren't you supposed to say something first?" Oscar replied.

There was a few seconds of silence before another boy standing beside the unfortunate pirate suddenly mumbled, "Trick or treat" in a dull tone.

"That's what I'm talking about," said Oscar with enthusiasm. He threw a handful of loot into each bag. As a penalty, however, he said he declined to give them "some of the better stuff" from his cache of Halloween offerings.

***

The last callers at the Wonders' door arrived just after eight o'clock. It was your agent's turn to hand out the Halloween goodies.

When I opened the door, there were two slight figures standing in the light of the front porch. On the right was a young girl dressed as a princess. It wasn't a very elaborate costume, but she wore a rather notable tiara and someone had gone to some lengths to apply makeup to her face.

Standing beside the girl was Tremaine. He was wearing a double-breasted navy jacket with two rows of gold buttons. Visible under the jacket was his New Jersey Nets basketball shirt. However, one's eye was drawn to the silver crown that sat jauntily on his head.

"It's Prince Charming and his lovely princess!" I said with gusto.

"King," said Tremaine abruptly. "I'm a king."

"And I'm a queen," said his companion brightly.

"Oh, sorry," I said with a respectful tone.

The Wonders' supply of goodies was far more than the evening had demanded, so I thought I'd make the royal couple benefactors of this situation. I put several handfuls of goodies into their bags.

The young girl immediately said, "Thank you," but Tremaine seemed unmoved by my generosity.

"You got any chocolate bars?" he asked quietly.

I studied his face for a moment, unsure of what to say next. The young queen was looking at Tremaine and seemed to be avoiding my gaze.

"Hold on a sec," I said finally. I went into the kitchen and retrieved the two large chocolate bars I had purchased from Tremaine on the previous evening.

"Will these do?" I asked.

Tremaine nodded with a smile on his face. The young girl had a look of wonder on hers.

***

The royal couple uttered their appreciation and turned to walk down the porch steps. That's when I noticed that the girl was wearing an oversized pair of ladies dress shoes. King Tremaine's feet, of course, were covered by his usual basketball sneakers.

I stood at the doorway and watched them go down the steps. The girl's shoes made this rather difficult, so Tremaine gracefully held her arm as she negotiated the steps. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the girl pulled the chocolate bar from her bag and held it in front of her eyes as if it were made of gold.

"Told ya," said Tremaine.

***

We All Fall Down

Words of wisdom from your agent's recent travels:

1. Diabetic socks rock.*
2. Tagless underwear are pretty good, too.**
3. There are few practical uses for one shoe.***

With a respectful nod toward one of Balloon Pirate's literary devices:
* I do not have diabetes. I bought the socks by mistake.
** Underwear with sewn-on tags never really bothered me much. My new underwear just happens to be tagless. I wasn't aware of this until I opened the packages.
*** I returned from Toronto with only one dress shoe. Apparently, the other one was left in the trunk of my rental car (it's a long story).

***

Autumn has descended upon the Sack like a hastily-drawn curtain. The leaves on the poplar tree behind the Wonders' back deck seemed to turn a brilliant orange almost overnight. When your agent drew the curtains on the patio window last Sunday, temporary blindness almost ensued.

Of course, the falling leaves that accompany autumn bring a new diversion for Sack residents. There will be much raking to be done as the demands of summer lawn care subside. Thankfully, this also brings opportunity for amusement. Leaf-raking usually highlights some of the more quirky aspects of human nature among several Sack residents.

***

Naturally, Big Doug has a rigid schedule in raking any leaves that dare to fall on his award-winning lawn. Every second day will find him carefully engaged in this activity. You could probably set your watch by him.

Despite his attention to this matter, very few leaves actually seem to fall on his lawn during the autumn months. He only has to pick up a few strays each time he rakes. It's as if summer ends everywhere in the old town except at Big Doug's place. His lawn stays healthy and green right up to the first snowfall.

It's really quite a phenomenon.

***

It's possible that falling leaves intentionally stay away from Big Doug's lawn. Perhaps they can sense his indomitable spirit in seeking their removal. So, when they do fall on his property, they tend to head for his garden beds.

This, of course, is exactly where Big Doug prefers his leaves to fall. He'll add some mulch and compost and let those leaves remain where they are.

Weed, however, believes that only divine intervention must keep the leaves from falling on Big Doug's lawn. Aside from the occasional pilfering of building materials from construction sites, he says Big Doug is a clean-living man with a strong work ethic. A good lawn, free from autumn leaves, is likely one of God's small rewards.

Not surprisingly, Oscar holds an opposing view on this issue. As far as lawn matters go, he thinks Big Doug must've made some kind of deal with the Devil. This can be the only explanation, in Oscar's mind, for Big Doug's success in this area.

I have no idea about such things.

***

There is already one Sack resident whom Oscar suspects of being in league with the Devil.

Rental Doug, if not a blood-relative to the Evil One, almost certainly occupies a senior role on the Devil's management team. At least, that's Oscar's opinion on the matter.

"He might be a second cousin or something," Oscar said once. Then he added, "I'm not a hundred-percent sure about it, yet."

Oscar has promised to let your agent know when he becomes more certain about this matter.

***

The arrival of autumn always revitalizes Oscar's opinion about Rental Doug's true origins. This is because Rental Doug has a great deal of enthusiam for Halloween. Every year, he's the first to decorate his home in celebration of that playful day.

He puts a lot of effort into it, too.

In addition to a plentiful gathering of pumpkins on the porch stairs, there's also an array of homemade tombstones scattered on the front lawn. Propped against the porch is a painted cardboard coffin. A straw-filled Dracula rests comfortably inside. At night, the scene is illuminated by a soft, orange spotlight.

It's a spooky, playful scene. Sack kids love it.

***

Raked leaves also play an important role in Rental Doug's tableau. He needs them to fill several large orange plastic bags. The bags have a jack-o'-lantern face printed on the side. When filled with leaves, they become giant pumpkins.

The big orange pumpkin bags are on the front corner of the lawn, beside the driveway. This is also where the spotlights are.

Rental Doug is always willing to take your raked leaves off your hands. He needs them to fill up his bags. Even though the guy might be working for the Devil, Sack residents are always happy to oblige.

***

Little Doug has a very firm policy as far as leaf-raking is concerned. He eschews the activity entirely.

"Leaves should stay exactly where the good Lord intended them to fall," he told me once, using a philosophical tone.

Oscar shares Little Doug's position on this matter. He doesn't even own a rake. But he has a different reason for allowing leaves to remain on his lawn.

"I'm just lazy," he said with a shrug.

***

No one, however, can match Gordon when it comes to his relationship with autumn leaves. Despite furious and frequent efforts, he can't seem to keep the things off his lawn. The more he rakes, the more the leaves seem to be attracted to his property.

Oscar says it's like watching Gordon chase his own tail. He could be right about this.

***

It's true that Gordon is indefatigable when it comes to raking. He's at it almost every waking moment.

Oscar says he once saw Gordon raking before seven o'clock in the morning on a work day. I, however, remain doubtful about this. Oscar usually isn't even awake at that hour.

Nevertheless, Gordon does perservere. He rakes before the dinner hour on weekdays and will be out numerous times on a weekend. It's a major focus in his life when autumn arrives.

Last week, Weed thought Gordon had installed a scarecrow on his front lawn. But it turned out be Gordon, himself. He was taking a break from raking and was standing very still, gazing out upon the Sack. He was leaning on his high quality raking implement.

"As soon as the thing moved, I figured it must've been Gordon," said Weed with a casual tone.

***

Gordon places the blame for his excessive leaves squarely on Little Doug's stocky shoulders.

The Sack, of course, is sometimes buffetted by strong offshore winds. In this manner, Little Doug's leaves often find themselves deposited on Gordon's lawn. Although, Little Doug says this can only be the result of God's will, Sack observers think he's being a bit disingenuous. He's quite aware of the wind factor in this matter. After all, why rake the leaves when the wind will do it for you?

Besides, as Weed is quick to point out, Little Doug rarely has much to say about spiritual matters. Instead, Weed believes that God's will is really being focused on Gordon.

"It's a small punishment for being such a tit, "

***

While this autumn has brought falling leaves in its wake, it has brought something else to the Sack, as well. Several residents have suffered falls over the past few weeks. As Big Doug would probably put it, we mean the "falling on your arse" type of fall.

Elizabeth suffered the least serious of the falls. She twisted her knee after falling on her driveway. Apparently, one of her shoe heels broke as she was leaving for work one morning. Witnesses claim she landed on her keister.

Since the fall, Elizabeth has been walking around with a cane. Oscar says he saw her waving it at some Sack kids the other day. An errant basketball had broken some branches on one of her shrubs.

***

Young Doo was the second casualty. He fell on a rock in the Sack's centre circle. The rock was hidden under some leaves. A broken wrist was the young lad's reward.

A tattered white cast now covers Doo's right arm. At the boy's request, Weed drew a snarling orange pumpkin on it. Doo was thrilled with it, too. His mom wasn't that thrilled about it, however. She said Weed shouldn't do things like that just because Doo asks him.

She could be right about that.

***

Maxwell, Britney Bitterman's beau also fell down during these first weeks of autumn. He toppled off the back of a waste management truck. According to Maxwell, he broke his collarbone. He was quick to dispel any notion that he was performing his patented "Look ma, no hands!" routine when the injury occured.

"I just zigged, when I should've zagged." he told me through a gap-toothed grin.

***

Thanks to short-term disability benefits, Maxwell is still earning seventy-five percent of his income as a waste management professional. He said he hopes to be back at work as soon as possible, as long as the good Lord helps him heal quickly.

At the same time, Maxwell notes that his shoulder suffered some soft-tissue damage during the fall. He says he'll need to attend physiotherapy after his collarbone heals. This, he warned, could keep him off work longer than he would like.

"Hopefully," he said, with the same gap-tooth grin, "I'll be able to get back to it after Christmas."

Oscar says we are now witnessing the likely end of Maxwell's working years. He could be right about this.

***

Mr. Bitterman, Maxwell's de facto father-in-law, simply grunted when Oscar mentioned Maxwell's injury. Apparently, his gall bladder has been acting up again.

The elder Bitterman would only say that nothing can surprise him anymore when it comes to Maxwell. Even though both Britney and her illustrious partner have been working, he says Maxwell never seems to have "a pot to piss in." Instead, he explained, his "son-in-law" always seems to spend his money on something ridiculous, instead of saving for a new house or apartment.

These words certainly resonated with Sack residents on Saturday. That's when Maxwell accomplished something that made many of us almost fall down in our tracks: He drove into the Sack in his new car.

Maxwell is the proud new owner of a 1993 Cutlass Supreme.

***

This particular car has been the object of Maxwell's desire for a very long time. It's the cornerstone to his fledgling part-time business, Cutlass Supreme Painting.

The car has been circulating through Maxwell's vast network of relatives for many years. His cousin, Dougie Duggan, was the most recent owner. Dougie Duggan also happens to be Maxwell's boss with the old town's waste management professionals. He just acquired a 1997 Ford Ranger.

Maxwell bought the 1993 Cutlass Supreme for five hundred dollars. This included Dougie's collection of cassette tapes. Apparently, his Ford Ranger comes with a CD player.

***

Maxwell is understandably thrilled by the acquisition of this particular automobile. He already has a pet name for it. He simply calls it "my baby."

Ironically, the 1993 Cutlass Supreme will do nothing to increase the fortunes of Cutlass Supreme Painting. As Maxwell explained, his painting arm is going to be "on the fritz" for some time. Although he didn't mention it, the complete absence of any painting gigs is also a factor in the company's prospects.

None of this, however, can dispel Maxwell's enthusiasm for his new car and his company's future success. Ultimately, he expects to leave his job as a waste management professional when Cutlass Supreme Painting begins to enjoy corporate success.

"Soon as my shoulder gets fixed," he said, with a confident squint, "I'll be painting again on a full-time basis." Then he took a long draw on his cigarette and blew out a thin stream of smoke.

"But it probably won't be until next year," he added matter-of-factly, ". . . . probably next fall."

***

The House Trap

Burning Manor continues to be a source of consternation among Sack residents. During the past month, we've experienced a steady diet of shenanigans from its illustrious residents.

Dirk and Dora, of course, are trying to sell Burning Manor. But almost three months have passed without an acceptable offer. Rental Doug has made several low-ball offers on the place, but Dirk and Dora remain stalwart in their quest for the highest possible price.

Rental Doug says it will be a cold day in hell before they get the price they're looking for.

***

There are some good reasons for Rental Doug's assessment of the matter.

Having traversed the innards of Burning Manor on a number of occasions, Rental Doug reports a lengthy list of deficiencies in the house. This includes a fist-sized hole in the wall on the main floor and a stain of unspeakable origins on the carpeted landing on the second level. There is also the matter of the still-growing "wall-o-beer-cases" in the downstairs family room.

To make matters worse, the denizens of Burning Manor have made little effort to tidy the place before it's viewed by an unsuspecting public. Rental Doug notes a litany of woes in this area, ranging from dishes in the sink to overflowing ashtrays on the kitchen counter.

During his last visit, Rental Doug reported the presence of a large purple bong sitting on the kitchen table like a centrepiece.

***

Of course, the state of the house is only one of the problems preventing the sale of Burning Manor for the desired price. There is also the matter of its most recent guest.

Bertha, a rather corpulent ex-convict arrived in the Sack in August. Recently released from a federal penitentiary, she's supposedly staying with Dirk and Dora until she gets on her feet in the community.

Oscar thinks this will be a very tall order for Bertha. After witnessing her habit of consuming copious amounts of fast food on Burning Manor's porch, he says it will take far more than free room and board to get Bertha on her feet.

"From what I can see, they're gonna need a crane to pull that off," he told me with a smirk.

***

As the months have passed, Dirk and Dora have become increasingly frustrated by their failure to get the desired price for their home. Incredibly, the couple has placed the blame for this state of affairs squarely in the lap of their real estate agent.

Elizabeth was the source of this latest tidbit of information. A "friend of a friend" happens to be married to the real estate agent in question.

Not surprisingly, the agent was aghast when Dirk and Dora complained about the length of time Burning Manor has remained unsold. Elizabeth said the agent has been telling the couple since "day one" about the need for substantial improvements in the home's appearance, if they wish to garner a decent offer.

The removal of the purple bong and Dirk's "wall-o-beer-cases" were prominent parts of the agent's advice. He also included a gentle recommendation that Bertha completely vacate the property during a scheduled open house. Bertha, of course, has been discovered sitting in the backyard and on the back deck by prospective home-buyers.

"People must think she comes with the house," Elizabeth sniffed, when she told me about the affair.

***

According to Elizabeth, Dora did not react kindly to the real estate agent's response to their complaint. Apparently, she threw one of her patented "hissy-fits" and then declared that his services were no longer required.

The agent, however, is a veteran of the house-selling game. He reminded Dora of their six-month contract and said he would be more than pleased to sue the panty hose off her in court.

Threatening Dora, as most Sack residents know, is normally akin to urinating into an Atlantic gale. You're certainly going to get more than you bargained for. Dora responded with a enough verbal venom to send most real estate agents scurrying to the door. Unbeknownst to Dora, however, her agent is not a man who flinches easily.

Prior to joining the real estate racket, the agent was a proud member of the old town's peelers for over twenty years. After calmly dabbing Dora's saliva from the lapels of his jacket, he quietly informed her of this fact. Then he said he would be happy to contact his former employer, if Dora wished to escalate matters.

According to Elizabeth, Dora shut her cake-hole immediately.

***

While Dora is prone to unpredictable behaviour, she still holds a slight edge over her partner, Dirk in the intelligence department. On the other hand, Dirk is miles ahead of her in the area of sensibility.

Recognizing the futility of their position, Dirk took matters into his own hands and made some immediate improvements to Burning Manor's interior. He repaired the hole in the wall on the main floor by covering it with white hockey tape. Then he removed the purple bong from the kitchen table. According to Elizabeth, it now sits on top of the toilet tank in the downstairs bathroom.

The ghastly stain on the carpeted landing has been hidden, as well. The agent says it's now covered by a pink bath mat.

Finally, Dirk took some immediate steps to cover the odour of cigarettes that permeates the house. He went to the dollar store and acquired a supply of plug-in air fresheners. The agent claims the house now bears the odour of an industrial-strength urinal cake.

Rental Doug says it will only be a matter of time before Dirk and Dora sell Burning Manor at price he can afford. He could be right about this.

***

Dirk's efforts to beautify Burning Manor did not, unfortunately, end with its interior. He took a singular step to improve the home's exterior appearance as well.

Sack residents remain uncertain whether his inspiration in this area came while adding to his infamous "wall-o-beer-cases." Weed, with a strong tone of certainty in his voice, says Dirk's idea must've been born while utilizing the purple glass bong. Either way, Sack residents awoke a few weeks ago to discover a curious addition to the home's exterior.

There is now a large lobster trap in the middle of Burning Manor's front lawn.

***

Lobster fishing, of course, has always been a significant part of life in the coastal areas of the old town's province. In some areas, a single lobster trap near the porch or front entry of a home is considered to be a piece of folk art.

But a lobster trap displayed on the lawn of suburban home is another matter entirely.

Sack residents were perplexed by Dirk's decision to beautify his home with the contraption. Some people even wondered if Dirk was actually trying to catch something with the trap. Oscar, for example, thought it might be used to snare one of the Sack's marauding raccoons. Big Doug said the lobster trap might even be aimed at catching any Sack kids who breached the perimeter of Burning Manor. Finally, Weed pondered the existence of suburban land lobsters.

Only Big Doug's idea has turned out to have any merit.

Young Doo, intrigued by this latest addition to the Sack's landscape, found himself entwined in the trap's netting several days after it appeared on Burning Manor's lawn.

***

Little Doug witnessed the incident while standing in his driveway. He was changing the oil in his pick-up truck at the time.

Doo had made a beeline for the trap as soon as he came home from school. It was late on a Tuesday afternoon. He fell to his hands and knees and began to inspect the contraption. Just as he reached inside the trap, Bertha suddenly emerged from the bowels of Burning Manor. During her brief residency in the Sack, she has already found one occasion to tell young Doo to "piss off." After this introduction to Bertha's girth and her snarly tone, the boy was quick to do exactly that.

Little Doug said he couldn't hear what Bertha said to Doo when she found him messing with the lobster trap. He said there was a good chance she told the boy to "piss off" again, because that's what the lad did. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the Sack's centre circle. He quickly found cover behind one of the large ornamental rocks.

Several minutes passed before he raised his head cautiously from behind the rock, as if he expected an onslaught of sniper fire.

Fortunately, Bertha was labouring down the street in the opposite direction. She was heading out of the Sack. Oscar figures she was heading for the local KFC. After all, he said with authority, it was Loony Tuesday at the chicken joint. Apparently, one can enjoy an extra piece of the Colonel's grub for a measly Canadian dollar.

***

With Bertha out of the picture, Doo decided to approach the lobster trap again. He was soon on his hands and knees conducting a thorough inspection of the object.

Little Doug said he observed Doo's return to the front lawn of Burning Manor. Then his attention returned to his oil-changing activities. When he was in the midst of replacing the oil filter, he heard a muted cry coming from Doo's direction.

Somehow, the boy had become entangled in the lobster trap.

***

It took some effort to calm the boy down before Little Doug could untangle him from the trap. Apparently, the lad was most concerned about the imminent return of "Berfa."

When he was finally freed from bondage, Doo uttered a quick "Fanks, Mr. Doug" and then sprinted home without looking back.

Oscar said it's unlikely that Doo will ever eat lobster again. He could be right about this.

***

Pox and Sox

I've cast a pox on the powerful forces that have kept me from the blogging machine lately.

Your agent, of course, isn't a man who throws a pox around lightly. My threshold for such a thing is very high. But Sack shenanigans are piling up around me and I haven't had time to put pen to paper. This is a very frustrating state of affairs that has affected me in more ways than I could imagine.

Yesterday, for example, I made a mad dash to the local shopping emporium. I've been travelling a fair bit recently and needed a number of sundry items. In particular, I needed some black socks.

Sock shopping, of course, is usually a straight-forward business. You pick out the colour and then select the ones that fall somewhere between cheap-ass and overpriced. At least, that's how I usually do it. And that's exactly what I did yesterday.

This afternoon, however, I started packing for another quick trip. The three pairs of black socks lay on the bed beside my suitcase. I removed the various tags and stickers from the first two pairs and placed them in my bag. I started to do the same with the third pair when I noticed the following words on the packaging:

Diabetic Socks - Non-binding leg and cuff allows for free circulation.

Your agent, it seems, is now the proud owner of three pairs of black diabetic socks. Until now, I hadn't heard of such a thing. Mrs. Wonders has assured me that the socks don't actually have diabetes, so there's no risk that I'll acquire the disease simply by wearing them. At the same time, I'm going to feel a slight pang of guilt when I wear them. In my mind, wearing diabetic socks when you don't have diabetes is akin to parking in a spot reserved for people with disabilities.

The point of all this is quite simple. Writing about the latest Sack shenanigans keeps the mind sharp. And my mind is quickly turning to mush. This is why I've cast a pox on the forces that have kept me from the blogging machine. I have no idea how long it takes for the pox to take effect, but I hope it's soon.

Meanwhile, I'll be walking about in a daze in my black diabetic socks. . . .

***

Animal Crackers

In a pensive mood, your agent settled onto the back deck with a cup of tea. It was late on a sunny afternoon. An occasional cool breeze brought the first hint of the impending autumn.

Suddenly, one of the last hummingbirds of the season appeared at the feeder adjacent to my chair. It fed momentarily and then zipped away into the trees. Although they're frequent visitors to the Wonders' yard, I never fail to be mesmerized by the frenetic motion of these minute creatures.

Hummingbirds are definitely cool.

***

As time passed on the deck, my mind began to wander. This occurs with some frequency. Thankfully, it always seems to find its way back where it belongs.

Although lost in thought, I suddenly became aware of a small feather as it wafted above my forehead. The feather fell slowly and gently. It landed between my feet. I examined it without picking it up. The feather was light grey and its ends were rather frayed.

Oscar says moments such as these should not be ignored. A feather landing at one's feet must have some kind of deeper meaning. It could be a harbinger of things to come.

I pondered this possibility for some time. A feather, of course, can be a symbol of peace. On the other hand, the feather appeared to be a little unkempt. Perhaps instead, a case of ruffled feathers lies in wait for me around the next corner.

In the end, I dismissed the notion of this metaphorical feather. For the most part, I reminded myself, I'm the creator of my own destiny. Satisfied with this resolution, I stood up and finished the last drop of my tea. Then a familiar rumble suddenly echoed through my stomach. I was starting to feel hungry.

For some reason, I really felt like having chicken for supper.

***

The errant feather, however, did provide me with one benefit. I started thinking about the various creatures that inhabit the Sack. I refer, of course, to the non-human variety. These are the animals, birds and insects that also reside in this suburban cul-de-sac.

This is what we're going to talk about today.

Weed says he wishes people would always announce the gist of their message, before they start talking in detail about something. This way, he explains, one can decide whether it's worth one's attention. He says it would save both parties a great deal of time.

"Life is too short," he told me once, "to listen to stuff you don't want to hear about."

So, today we're going to talk about the beasts and pests of suburbia. Don't say I didn't warn you first.

***

Raccoons have descended upon the Sack in greater number over the last year.

These nocturnal creatures have been increasingly displaced by the misguided growth of the old town's suburbs. Every time a wooded area is cleared for construction, their natural habitat shrinks accordingly.

The Sack, of course, now occupies a lofty position on the raccoon's list of preferred dining areas. This summer, their visits have become a nightly spectacle. If one's refuse or compost material isn't secured, a yard strewn with garbage will undoubtedly await in the morning.

The old town's waste management professionals collect garbage, compost material and recycling bags on Friday. It remains folly, however, to place these items at the curb on Thursday evening. Gangs of marauding raccoons will appear boldly in the street when darkness descends.

Recently, a mob of raccoons arrived on the curb in front of Little Doug's house. It was just after midnight. For over an hour, the animals feasted on the contents of his compost bin. Inside the bin were the leftovers from a large family dinner. According to Little Doug, his extended family had enjoyed a grand seafood supper.

It wasn't difficult for the raccoons to access the remains of the seafood supper. They simply knocked the compost bin over and let the contents spill onto the street. In the midst of their repast, however, a terrible conflict arose amongst the raccoons. The ensuing fight included some horrible shrieks and death-defying screams. Raccoon disputes, it seems, are not for the faint of heart.

Almost everyone in the Sack was awakened by the noise. Residents watched from their windows as the raccoons squared off in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Eventually, cooler heads prevailed and the raccoons resumed their feast.

In the morning, the street was covered with shards of lobster and crab shells. Young Doo promptly smashed them to smithereens with his hockey stick.

***

A few weeks ago, Computer Doug emerged from his house with a bag of food scraps. He was going to dump it in his compost bin.

It was about six o'clock on a Friday morning. Computer Doug was wearing a pair of striped pyjama bottoms and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt. He also wore his infamous Bigfoot slippers.

Computer Doug, of course, is not much of an outdoor person. He's not the type for hiking or traipsing through the woods. If given a preference, he would probably opt to pave over his front and back yards. He'll be the first person to tell you that he's strictly an urbanite.

This particular characteristic made it even more amusing when Computer Doug opened his compost bin. A young raccoon had somehow become trapped inside during the overnight hours. It came leaping out of the bin in a frantic, distressed fashion.

Later, Computer Doug would admit that he was so startled by the raccoon that he almost "crapped" in his pyjama bottoms.

Oscar said this would've been far more entertaining than the raccoon fight in front of Little Doug's house. I remain doubtful about this.

***

There are, of course, numerous cats and dogs living in the Sack.

The cats are notable only for the killing field in Little Doug's backyard. If you're ever in the market for a dead mouse, squirrel or bird, this is where you're likely to find one.

Most of the dogs are well behaved and keep a low profile. The big barking dog who lives in Burning Manor would be the obvious exception. Thankfully, he seems to have settled down a bit over the summer.

Lately, however, the big barking dog has reserved its rambunctious nature for one particular Sack resident. For some reason, he begins to bark with great fervor whenever he sees Elizabeth's husband, Philip.

Elizabeth and Philip, of course, live beside Burning Manor. Even when the dog is inside, it reacts to Philip's presence. If he simply pulls into the driveway, the dog's urgent barking will still echo into the street. When the dog is tied up outside, it will bark frantically at Philip long after he has disappeared.

Neither Philip, nor Elizabeth, can understand why the dog reacts in this fashion. Philip is a rather unassuming man and he rarely gives the dog a second glance, even when it's barking madly at him. Elizabeth thinks Dirk and Dora have set the dog against Philip because he backed into Dora's sister's ancient Ford Fiesta and then called the peelers about it.

Dirk and Dora are not particularly fond of the peelers.

Oscar, on the other hand, has a theory about the big barking dog's dislike for Philip. He says it has everything to do with Philip's occupation. Philip, of course, works at a funeral home. One can only assume that he's handling dead bodies with some regularity.

"His scent," Oscar explained learnedly, "probably includes the smell of death."

Weed, of course, thought Oscar's theory was preposterous. He accused Oscar of smelling like stupidity.

"Fine." Oscar said haughtily. "But, the next time you see Philip, take a little whiff of the guy. You'll see what I'm talking about."

Weed said he would certainly take a whiff of Philip at his next opportunity. But the only thing he expected to smell was some Old Spice aftershave.

I remain doubtful about all of this.

***

The most prolific insect in the Sack is the industrious ant.

While these tiny ants are plentiful in the outdoors, they have also found their way into many people's homes. This is a frequent problem around the old town.

Everyone, of course, has their own method for keeping the ants away. Most people employ store-bought repellents. A few use their own homemade concoctions. Some residents are more successful with their methods than others.

Oscar says he has a small ant-sized sign posted near his front door. Apparently, the sign reads: No Ants Allowed. He says it works like a charm.

I remain doubtful about this, too.

***

Little Doug swears by his own brew of anti-ant goop. Dropped near entrances and window sills, he says it does a great job of keeping the tiny insects at bay. Weed, however, begs to differ on this point. Apparently, Little Doug's eyesight is dreadful. An ant would have to be crawling on his eyeball, according to Weed, before Little Doug could ever see one.

Weed claims he gets most of his aerobic exercise from stepping on ants.

***

There is probably some truth to Weed's assessment of the ant situation at Little Doug's house.

About a month ago, Daisy and he were getting ready for bed. Their son, Baby Doug, was fast asleep. While Daisy was disrobing, she suddenly felt a tickle near the seam of her underwear. A quick investigation revealed a tiny ant in the vicinity of her nether regions.

Alarmed at the discovery, Daisy shrieked and clawed at her underwear. She spun around the room like a cyclone. Weed said she was trying to rid of her underwear and the ant at the same time. Amidst the ruckus, Baby Doug was roused from his slumber.

Weed says it's true what they say about having ants in your pants.

"You dance, man," he said calmly. "You really dance when you have ants in your pants."

***

Birds are another part of the Sack's landscape.

The Wonders home, of course, is the focal point for many of them. We seem to be the only residents with more than a passing interest in their presence.

Over the years, there have been a few notable birds in the backyard. These are birds that rarely show up in a suburban environment such as the Sack. Unfortunately, your agent's enthusiasm for these moments is rarely shared by other residents. Yawns and blank stares seem to be the usual response.

Once, an Indigo Bunting was in the back trees for about a week. I asked Oscar if he would like to take a peak at this brilliantly-coloured little bird. He thought about it for a moment and then looked at his watch.

"Naw," he said through a stifled yawn, "Law & Order is gonna be on in few minutes."

***

On another occasion, a ferocious-looking Sharp-shinned Hawk suddenly appeared on the rail of the back deck. A dead starling was clutched in one of its talons.

The hawk perched on the railing for about five minutes. It stared at your agent and Mrs. Wonders through the patio door. We were sitting at the kitchen table with open mouths.

We certainly didn't want to see the hawk devour its prey. We didn't want the raptor to leave the starling's carcass behind, either. When shown on television, these normal, yet brutal aspects of nature always lead your agent to change the channel with great haste. Thankfully, however, the hawk eventually revealed its impressive wingspan and then laboured into the sky with its prey.

"Now, that," Oscar said later, "would've been worth seeing."

***

Among Sack residents, however, the most notable stories about birds involve the misfortunes of fellow neighbours.

Computer Doug's house, for example, is graced by a starling's nest at least once every spring. He'll refuse to acknowledge its presence for as long as possible. In the end, he has to get Little Doug to get rid of it for him.

Norma, Ben's wife, was once the victim of some errant pigeon poop. The thick, milky substance landed on her shoulder while she was gardening. Unfortunately, she was oblivious to its presence. It was only after stopping to talk to Big Doug that she learned of the matter.

"You've got bird shit all over you, you know," said Big Doug bluntly.

Norma was appalled to learn about the pigeon poop. Only the presence of Big Doug stopped her from stripping off her blouse in the middle of the cul-de-sac. She made a beeline for her front door with her arms held out woodenly.

According to Big Doug, Norma said "Yuck, yuck, yuck" repeatedly as she walked toward her house.

***

Elizabeth was once briefly attacked by a crow. She was wearing one of her gardening bonnets at the time. It was adorned with some fake foliage.

The crow swooped down and clutched at her head for only a second. It was likely going for the apparent nesting material on her hat. Oscar, who witnessed the event, said Elizabeth made some high pitched whooping sounds when the crow made contact with her. Then, like Norma, she made a beeline for the safety of her home.

Oscar said she sounded just like Curly from The Three Stooges.

***

Lately, the Sack has been the home of a rather unusual animal. At least, that's Oscar's opinion on the matter.

For the last number of weeks, there has been a new resident at Burning Manor. She is a woman of enormous girth. Apparently, she was recently released from a federal prison. According to Norma, the woman's name is Arlene. Sack residents had already tagged her as Bertha. Most are sticking with this moniker.

Oscar says he has no quarrel with people who are morbidly obese. He does, however, have difficulties with the uncouth. This is a quality he finds Bertha to own in spades.

Twice in the last two weeks, Bertha has eaten a fast food meal on the steps of Burning Manor. In both cases, she did it during the early afternoon. The first meal was a feast from McDonald's. According to Oscar, it was clearly a super-sized order in every respect.

At the time, Oscar was walking past Burning Manor. He was on his way to the corner mailbox. Bertha was oblivious to his presence. He said she was lost in concentration as she devoured her meal. According to Oscar, it wasn't difficult to determine the ingredients in her Big Mac. The front of her white sweatshirt was covered in ketchup and other toppings.

Oscar said he walked past her with his head down on the way back from the mailbox.

***

Bertha's other front porch meal was also notable, according to Oscar. This time she inhaled a substantial portion of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Oscar says he was unnerved by the number of times Bertha licked her fingers.

When she was finished eating, Oscar said Bertha left the box of KFC remnants on the front steps of Burning Manor. Both Dirk and Dora came home separately, but didn't give the box a second glance.

Bertha's box of chicken bones stayed on the porch overnight.

At about two o'clock in the morning, an unholy racket began in the front yard of Burning Manor. Four adult raccoons were battling for control of Bertha's chicken bones. Oscar said the ensuing raccoon scrap definitely rivaled the one at Little Doug's house. Fortunately, your agent was away at the time.

Oscar says he feels no animosity toward the raccoons. After all, he points out, they're just trying to keep themselves alive. Bertha, on the other hand, is another matter entirely.

"People have all kinds of pets around here," he said thinly, "but Dirk and Dora had to go and get themselves a wild pig."

***